


weapons of warmth

by evocates



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As winter approached, Boromir returned to Minas Tirith from the South.</p>
            </blockquote>





	weapons of warmth

**Author's Note:**

> The title is stolen from Sufjan Stevens’s song, _Vesuvius_.
> 
> Beta'd by noalinnea@LJ. Written for empy@LJ for the 2012 lotr_sesa@LJ Exchange.

A bright clear sound rang out in the distance. In the Council room, King Elessar smiled. It was sweet and familiar, the silver trumpets at the gates that welcomed the return of the Lords of Gondor. He placed down his quill, lifting his head to meet the eyes of the Councilmen.

“The Lord Boromir has returned,” Beregond said. His tone was solemn, but the grin that near-split his face showed his true thoughts.

“Aye, so he has.” Elessar inclined his head. He stood. “The Council is dismissed for the day.”

“But sire,” one of the Councilmen protested. “There are still many matters to discuss, particularly of the trade proposals to the many tribes of the Haradrim. Will Lord Boromir not join us in our debate?”

“’Tis a long trip, from the south of Harad territories to Minas Tirith,” Elessar raised an eyebrow. “The proposals will not be finalised today, and he will need rest. His reports will be heard tomorrow morn, no doubt, but today I would rather my Councilmen spend this beautiful morning with their lands and their families.”

“Of course, sire,” the Councilman bowed.

Elessar did not wait for more protests. His fingers tingled, and he curled them, barely, by his side. It had been long months since Boromir had first set South by his own orders, and the King had missed his Steward’s presence by his side. Though the Steward’s place was always in Minas Tirith, to ready himself for ruling if the King had need to rush into battle, Elessar had long known there was none better to negotiate with the wild warriors of the Harad than the man who had always seen himself as a warrior and soldier more than a Lord.

Giving a swift nod to the assembled Men, Elessar headed for the doors, barely noticing from the corner of his eyes the quiet, private smile of the Prince of Dol Amroth. He slowed his steps in minor protest against being made an object of amusement. If Imrahil asked of his hurry, Elessar would answer that he had missed the feel of the sun on his skin.

It would be, in its own way, a form of truth.

***

Boromir swung down from his horse, stepping onto the white cobblestones of Minas Tirith for the first time in months. He sighed heavily; perhaps it was only foolish imagination, but his aching feet and legs felt the gentle chill immediately as it seeped through his leather boots into his bones. He handed the reins over to a waiting guard, returning the boy’s wide-eyed bow with a small smile of his own.

He had returned home.

The skies above the White City were grey where they had been summer-blue when he reluctantly parted from her. Boromir took a deep breath, and found the familiar scent of sweet bread baking to be near-stifled by the chill that had settled into the air and the stones. Winter was fast-approaching, and the solstice was nigh but a month away. Too much time had been spent in the South, but Boromir did not think it a waste. There was much gained from his visit to the Harad. Although Boromir had doubted his King’s decision to send him instead of another, better-versed in diplomacy and with softer speech, he was reminded once more of Elessar’s wisdom.

“Milord,” the groom approached him. “Will you need another horse?”

“Nay,” Boromir said. He shook his thoughts away and turned his head up. High above him, the Tower of Ecthelion shone, regal and tall, the jewel of Minas Tirith, but Boromir could only see it as home, where all he loved and would ever love lived.

“I will walk.”

The road had been long and his feet ached for rest, but the sights of Minas Tirith would revive him once more, just enough for an audience with his King.

***

“Estel.”

Aragorn bit back a sound of impatience when he recognised Arwen’s voice. He turned instead, taking his Queen’s hand and pressing a soft kiss to its back in greeting. Arwen smiled, and Aragorn could not help but be struck once more by her beauty and poise, the feeling as strong as it was so many decades ago in the woods of Rivendell, although the lands were far away and he was no longer the young, untested Ranger.

“Arwen,” he smiled. “Is something the matter?”

Arwen shook her head. Her hair, always freed, slipped over her shoulder. Aragorn tucked the errant strand back behind her ear.

“Boromir has returned and I know that you are eager to meet him,” Arwen said. “I will not stop you, my love, but will you not wait for him in the gardens instead? The last autumn blooms still remain amongst the frost that clings to the tips of the branches. He has not seen it in months.” She paused, and gave him a small smile. “There will be no prying eyes to your reunion.”

There was much Aragorn was grateful for as the King of the Reunited Kingdoms, but none as much as having Arwen as his Queen, and Boromir as his Steward. His fingers, still roughly callused by constant sword practice, traced the edge of her jaw, and he leaned in to brush a kiss on her lips.

“As always, you are a treasure,” he murmured against her lips. “I will do as you bid, my Queen. The gardens have become far more beautiful from your touch, and Boromir will love to see the splendour of his childhood refuge even in winter.”

Arwen graced him with another smile. Aragorn gave her another small bow before he turned north, in the opposite direction of the seventh level gates that he had once been headed towards.

***

“As I rode home I felt the air turn cold,” Boromir said. He glanced at Aragorn for the briefest of moments, smiling, before he tipped his head up. Above him, a pine cone dangled from the leaves, and he reached for it, feeling the rough tips against his callused fingers. “The wind bit into my skin. It was a raging tempest on some days, so strong that even miles from the Anduin, I could smell the scent of its waters and know I was reaching home.”

Aragorn pivoted on his heel, meeting Boromir’s eyes. He took the pine cone from his hand and turned it over. The palm was reddened from the dye, and tiny needles dotted the skin. Aragorn smiled, and kissed the finger tips.

“Years ago, the river would have brought unpleasant memories,” he murmured. A single strand of blond hair fluttered before Boromir’s eyes, and Boromir brushed it away impatiently, his eyes fixed upon Aragorn’s. “Have they been exorcised?”

“Nay,” Boromir said. “Their sting has faded. Once I had looked towards the river and wanted to sink beneath it as the Horn once had,” his hand slipped down, brushing against his belt, but the new-forged Horn was no longer in his keeping. It belonged to Faramir’s eldest son Elboron now, as was his place as the heir of the Steward.

“Now, I only look towards the river and give thanks for the healing hands of the King,” Boromir looked at him and kissed the back of his hand. Like this, the green ring at his throat shone, but not as bright as his eyes. “There is little I would not have given to be able to live until today.”

Aragorn closed his eyes, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. Their breaths fogged the air between them, and he fancied he could feel the warmth of Boromir’s mouth, this close to him.

“I have missed you, love,” he murmured. He felt Boromir tense beneath him, but he ran a hand through his hair, cupping the nape of his neck. “Arwen has promised that there will be no eyes here, in these gardens.”

“My thanks to the Queen,” Boromir replied. He shifted back slightly, his thumb tracing Aragorn’s lips. His beard had grown even fuller during the seven years he had spent as a King, but there was still the scar that hid beneath the hair, a reminder of the Ranger Aragorn had been and would always be.

Aragorn tilted his head slightly, pressing a kiss to inside of Boromir’s wrist, where he could feel the quiet thrumming of his blood. “Was your quest successful?”

Boromir smiled, “Aye, my lord, it was. You had made a good choice of envoy: the tribes would not have taken well to Faramir or Imrahil. They are a prideful race of warriors, and they put little stock in words. When I first arrived, I had to do battle with several guards, before I was allowed to have an audience.”

“Even as an envoy of Gondor?”

“Especially so,” Boromir’s smile widened, and he traced a finger over the edge of Aragorn’s jaw. “The Harad do not believe in the father’s right to pass on his position to his son, Aragorn. They demand each warrior to earn his place by the right of combat, for he will have to prove his strength. There is little place for weakness in their lives, for they eke a living upon the desert sands, battling against the sun and the other tribes for the necessities of life.”

He leaned in slightly, turning his head to brush his lips against those of his King’s.

“You have taught me to temper my judgment, my lord,” Boromir continued. “With the Harad, I knew to judge them as they showed not, and not as what I saw.”

“We have taught each other,” Aragorn corrected. Under the cold sunlight of winter, his eyes were as blue as the Anduin would be once its waters had frozen over. Boromir was captivated by the sight, and he knew he would be so for the rest of his life, however long it was. 

“Aye,” Boromir said. This was an old argument of theirs, as familiar and comforting as the cloak wrapped over his shoulders, but he had no desire to revisit it now. Instead, his attention turned to those very furs. He slipped them off, walking over to a nearby bench and dropping it there.

“Boromir?”

“I stayed with the Harad through their autumn. In the south, the winter winds are warmer, but the chills still bit into bones,” Boromir said, his back still facing his King. “The warriors did not wear furs -- those they left to the children, the elderly, and the infirm. Instead, they kept warm in other ways.”

“What have they taught you, my Steward?” Boromir could hear the smile in Aragorn’s voice, and he returned it as he tipped his head back, looking at his King.

“They taught me a dance. Will you let me show it to you, my King?”

Aragorn chuckled, a low, soft sound. He moved over to Boromir, pressing a kiss to his lips before he picked up Boromir’s cloak, draping it over his own shoulders. His eyes were brighter than ever as he lifted the collar, burying his nose into it as he took a deep breath. 

“I will be a fool to refuse,” he said.

“Their swords are different,” Boromir said. He drew his own, the same sword that had accompanied him to Rivendell and all the way back to Gondor and Mordor. The blade had been dulled before, but he kept it well, and now it gleamed under the grey skies of winter. “My grace must fall short as well, for they learned to dance from their youth, and I only had bare weeks of tutelage.”

Aragorn shook his head. He did not say a word, but Boromir knew all he wished to say from the look in his eyes, the gentle upward curve of his mouth. It was more than a smile than a hint to a shared secret, the proof of the love they shared with each other. Boromir returned the look before he ducked his head down, bending to loosen the laces on his boots. He wore no stockings beneath the leather, and the chill of the frost lingering on the blades of the grass made him shiver. No matter; it would be gone soon enough.

He stamped his foot. The Harad wore bells upon their ankles and on their wrists, creating music even as they danced to it. There were chains in the boxes amongst his pack, but he did not need them. Instead, Boromir closed his eyes and threw himself into the dance that he had learned from watching.

Boromir began with a hand on the tip of his sword, the other wrapped around the hilt. The blade was not curved, but he paid it little mind. His feet stamped on the ground as he turned, sword still in hand. In the south, the desert sands were kicked up in every dance, creating a small mist around their feet. In performances, the bodies of the warriors were usually stripped until there was little left but a cloth around their hips, their muscles oiled. Yet such dances were not merely entertainment, and there were plenty who danced clothed, their loose robes swirling around them as they spun. Boromir was dressed only in leather breaches and a shirt, but he could feel the winter air creep beneath the cloth, skittering across his skin, warming immediately as his blood rushed hot in his veins.

It was a deadly dance, and he kept a good distance from his King. The sword in his hand was an extension of his arm, and Boromir turned, stabbed it into the air. Once it was a weapon of death, but now it was for life, for warmth itself. His heart pounded, drumbeats resounding in his ears, his breath heated up, and though there was no sand here to kick, there was mist from his breath that curled around his body, wet heat the clung onto the bits of skin revealed by his clothes, threatening to chill. He did not stop or wipe the sweat away, instead making another turn, bending backwards. The tip of his sword cut through the branches of several trees, and Boromir took three steps backwards, feeling grass and soil crunch beneath his feet. He lifted his feet and stamped quickly, with only the balls of his feet.

Aragorn’s gaze was like fire beneath his skin. Boromir did not open his eyes. He knew these gardens well, and he had known them since childhood. He spun around once, raising his sword once more above his head, and he felt the chill of marble at his elbow. His breath was coming faster and faster, and he smiled to himself as he felt Aragorn’s eyes rake down his body. The sword swiped downwards, and Boromir turned again-- but he could not move into the next step of the dance, for there was a hand on his wrist, a body pressed against his, and he exhaled as his shoulders slammed into the trunk of a tree.

Broken bits of frost rained down upon them. Boromir opened his eyes, and he watched the white clouds escape Aragorn’s mouth. His hand was still trapped, but he wriggled the other out from underneath Aragorn’s hold, stroking his cheek down to his jaw.

“The people named you Boromir the Fair,” Aragorn said, and he was panting though he had not moved. His hands tugged at Boromir’s wrist. The sword fell, thudding onto the ground, and the cloak lost its struggle to remain on Aragorn’s shoulders and slipped down his back. “The name is fitting indeed.” 

“My lord,” Boromir whispered. He was grinning like a fool, but he could not bring himself to stop. Instead, he leaned forward, their foreheads touching. 

Aragorn chuckled under his breath. Boromir closed his eyes again as their lips met. They did not restrain themselves to chaste kisses this time, their lips parting and their tongues diving into each other’s mouths, tasting, exploring, renewing their memories of each other’s taste and scent that they had missed for the past two months. Boromir’s hands shook from the dance, and his breath came quick, clouds of steam curling against Aragorn’s cheek. He bunched his King’s tunic underneath his hand, holding onto him tight, as if his legs had melted beneath him and Aragorn was the only thing that could hold him up.

They parted shakily. Aragorn’s hand cupped his jaw, and Boromir turned his head, kissing the heel of his palm. He missed the feel of those calluses against his skin, the roughness of the touch as it scraped through his beard.

“Welcome home,” Aragorn whispered. Boromir smiled. He closed his eyes again, and when he breathed he took in Aragorn’s scent, something so familiar and indescribable that he could not find any possible comparisons. He only knew it belonged right next to his heart.

“I have returned to you, my King.”

_End_


End file.
